10. Dante
DANTE
I leave the study without speaking to anyone.
Not to Luca, not to Marco, and definitely not to Gianna.
The rage coils under my skin like a living thing, quiet and hot, and I know if I open my mouth right now, I’ll say something I won’t be able to take back.
The gravel crunches under my boots as I walk across the estate courtyard and get into the car.
I don’t bother calling ahead.
Everyone in this city knows the Salvatore name.
They’ll make room for me, like they always do.
By the time I reach the brothel, the sun is bleeding into the horizon.
The lights are warm here, the music low, the voices never too curious.
It's the kind of place built to drown noise, not amplify it.
The girl they send to me is beautiful.
Pale skin, soft mouth, long legs that swing over my lap like she’s done this a hundred times.
She presses against me with an eager rhythm, her hands sliding under my shirt, her voice a whisper in my ear as she offers comfort I’m supposed to want.
But I don’t feel anything.
Not the tight dress she shrugs off, not the perfume she’s bathed in, not the way her hands explore my chest like she’s trying to unlock something.
I close my eyes and try to summon desire the way I used to.
There’s only static.
It’s not her fault.
She’s doing everything right.
But I feel like I’ve been gutted, like whatever part of me used to enjoy this kind of night has dried up into ash.
I shove away from the couch and reach for my shirt.
She tries to follow me, confused, embarrassed, maybe.
"Don’t take it personally," I say, while waving her off.
I toss her more cash than she deserves and walk out before I start questioning what the hell is wrong with me.
Of course, I know what’s wrong.
I told the mother of my girls to get an abortion, and she got upset and ran.
And I’m actually mad about it.
It makes no sense, because she was well within her rights to do what she did.
But here I am, wishing she’d have tried me anyway.
Wishing she’d have realized that maybe I said what I did because I was afraid of the fallout.
How could someone like me ever raise sane kids?
The drive back to the estate is quiet.
No music.
No calls.
The sun has barely slipped beneath the horizon when I step out of the car.
Evening stretches long across the estate, soft and burnished gold, the air still warm from the heat that baked the grounds all day.
The guards at the gate let me in with a nod, and I pass through the marble halls without saying a word to anyone.
The corridor leading to the south wing is unfamiliar.
I have never had reason to come this way before.
This was always Luca’s domain, the wing he kept reserved for guests who mattered more than the rest.
The gravel feels too loud under my steps.
I keep my pace brisk as I cut through the main house, avoiding the drawing rooms, the family corridors, any hallway that might put me face to face with someone asking for an explanation I’m not ready to give.
I tell myself I’m heading to my suite.
That I’ll lock the door, pour a drink, and sleep until tomorrow forces my hand again.
But then I hear laughter, faint and high, curling around the marble arches of the southern wing.
The kind that belongs to children still drunk on their own joy, untouched by caution or restraint.
I stop.
I don’t mean to.
My feet move before I’ve made a decision, steering me past the main stairwell, down the corridor lined with frosted glass and gilded sconces, toward the suite Luca ordered to be prepared.
The doors to the courtyard are slightly ajar.
Through the opening, I catch a flash of movement.
A blur of pink and green darting through the hedges.
I push the door open fully.
There, under the drooping branches of the olive tree, two little girls are chasing each other in dizzying circles.
One clutches a crooked stick with ribbons tied to the end, waving it like a wand.
The other holds a small basket brimming with grass, feathers, and what looks like crumbled petals.
Their shoes are off.
Their dresses are wrinkled.
They look perfectly at home, as if this estate has always belonged to them.
It hits me in the ribs, hard and fast, how much I don’t know.
What they like, how they laugh, who they think they are in a world full of men who would use them without blinking.
One of them sees me.
She slows, tapping her sister on the shoulder.
They both turn.
Big eyes, dark lashes, curls wild around their faces.
My throat dries.
I can’t move.
"Are you one of Nonna Valentina’s friends?" the girl with the basket asks, frowning a little.
"No," I answer quietly.
Her sister leans forward, whispering loud enough for me to hear, "He looks like the picture."
"What picture?" I ask, not moving from the doorway.
Their eyes widen, unsure whether they’ve said too much.
"The one in Mama’s drawer," the first girl mutters, then adds with stubborn pride, "I wasn’t snooping. It was already open."
I huff through my nose.
Not quite a laugh.
Not quite judgment either.
She takes a step forward, inspecting me.
"What’s your name?"
"Dante."
They repeat it in unison.
One tests the sound like it’s a new word she needs to try out a few more times.
The other just tilts her head.
"I’m Alessia," says the girl with the basket. "She’s Arietta."
"Are you here for dinner?" Arietta asks, chewing her bottom lip. "Mama says we’re not supposed to ask too many questions, but she didn’t say anything about guests."
I step into the courtyard, unsure why I’m still here.
I should walk away.
I should let Valentina or someone else who is gentler step in.
I don’t belong in this picture.
"No," I say, quieter this time. "I’m not here for dinner."
A silence falls between us, and then Alessia points to a cluster of mud-covered leaves beside the tree.
"We’re building a city," she says proudly. "That’s the library. It fell over twice but we fixed it."
I glance at the pile.
"Strong foundation?"
She nods like I’ve passed a test.
"You can help if you want," Arietta offers. "But you can’t touch the palace. That part’s finished."
My body lowers without thought.
I kneel beside their masterpiece and pretend to understand its blueprints.
They explain it with the confidence of engineers, pointing out stick bridges and leaf roofs, naming bugs that have taken up residence as if they were tenants.
It’s absurd and messy and beautiful in a way I was not prepared for.
Arietta offers me a twig.
"To build the bakery," she says. "It needs walls."
I take it.
My fingers don’t shake, but they feel clumsy.
It takes a moment to get the rhythm right, to understand how careful they are about every piece, how much meaning lives in the crooked angles and uneven towers.
When the wall is finished, they clap like I’ve won something.
The warmth that spreads in my chest has nothing to do with pride.
It’s deeper than that.
Older.
They’re still talking when Valentina’s voice floats in from the hallway.
A gentle summons.
I know she won’t come out and interrupt.
She never hurries moments that should linger.
The girls sigh, brushing the dirt from their knees, and each of them picks up a stuffed toy I hadn’t noticed before.
A rabbit.
A small bear with a bowtie.
"You’ll be here tomorrow?" Alessia asks.
"I will," I say, before I can stop myself.
Arietta just nods like she already expected that answer.
They leave me in the garden, sitting in the middle of their kingdom, with a broken twig in one hand and mud drying on the cuffs of my shirt.
I don’t remember standing.
I don’t remember walking back through the south wing.
But somehow, I’m outside Gianna’s door, listening to the faint sound of movement from within.
It’s not late yet, but the sky outside is darker now, the first star just beginning to show itself above the trees.
I knock once, and the door shifts open a crack.
She appears in the frame a moment later, barefoot, hair still damp from a shower, dressed in a nightdress covered by a pale robe.
She freezes when she sees me.
"You’re not supposed to be here."
"I wanted to talk."
She doesn’t move, but she doesn’t close the door either.
That’s something.
"I saw them," I say.
Her posture changes. "Where?"
"Outside. They were playing."
Gianna’s gaze sharpens. "And?"
"They’re smart. They’re loud. They’re...happy."
She swallows, but says nothing.
"I didn’t come to pick another fight," I tell her. "I know how I acted earlier. I lost control. I was angry and embarrassed and I said things I shouldn’t have."
She leans against the doorframe.
Her arms stay crossed, but she’s listening.
"I’ve never been anyone’s father," I continue. "I didn’t grow up thinking that role was for me. I barely know how to stay still for more than a week at a time."
"You think I don’t know that?"
She frowns slightly, clearly wondering where I’m going with this.
I flex my fingers against my thigh, dragging out the seconds while I scrape together something halfway decent to say.
"I know you do. But I still want you to hear it from me."
She shifts her weight, one bare foot skimming against the edge of the rug, the motion subtle but telling, as though some invisible thread inside her is beginning to fray.
"Dante, I’m not saying I did the right thing. I’m not…"
Her voice stumbles, and she lifts both hands to her face, dragging her palms down slowly, like the truth has grown too heavy to carry without her body buckling under it.
I watch her fingers linger at her temples, pressing circles into her skin, the silence between us thickening as her next words gather breath.
"I don’t know what I was doing back then, except that I didn’t want my kids being around someone who could run if things got too hard."
Her eyes meet mine, and the flicker there is raw, not accusing, just worn.
I drag a hand across the back of my neck, skin prickling, some old defense trying to rise, but I force it back down.
"And it does get hard. They’re kids, they expect you to be around for them come hail or shine."
She lets out a dry laugh that barely reaches the corners of her mouth, then clasps her elbows like she’s holding herself in place.
"And…it can be exhausting at times," she admits, voice pitched low, "but it’s so worth it, if you’re actually in love."
Her gaze drops to the floor, lingering there for a beat too long.
"But if you’re not, you begin looking at it like a prison. And I’ll be damned," she says, lifting her chin again, steady now, "if I let you see my kids as a cage holding you back from whatever it is that you consider life."
I stare at her, not because I have something to say, but because I don’t.
What she just said—about love, about the cage, about how damn hard it is—it winds its way into places I don’t usually let anything reach.
I’ve never had to explain myself to anyone, not beyond a smirk, a shrug, and a goodbye.
But those kids don’t need that man, and neither does she.
They deserve someone who doesn’t flinch when he’s needed.
Someone who doesn’t see responsibility as a trap.
I’m not sure I can be him, but I want to be.
"I’m not good at this," I admit. "But I want to be."
Gianna’s mouth presses into a line.
I don’t break character.
There’s a lot riding on this, because I need this woman in front of me to trust me enough to let me spend some time with my kids.
"I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m not even asking for trust. But I want to be part of their lives. And I want to make this easier for you, not harder."
She watches me for a long time.
Her eyes are tired, but not cruel.
"I don’t expect much, Dante," she says finally. "Just don’t break their hearts."
"I won’t."
And hell, I mean it.
There’s a mess of things I could say, but none of them feel like the kind that fixes anything.
So, I go with the only thing that’s been circling in my head since I saw them.
I never thought I’d have it in me to be anyone’s father—but I’m here now, and I’ll damn well figure it out.